


Tangles

by wakeuptothemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeuptothemoon/pseuds/wakeuptothemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to fix it.  He just needs to put his plan into motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flyeswatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyeswatter/gifts).



> Thanks to sailorchiron and boomsherlocka on tumblr for the beta.
> 
> Listened to Ed Sheeran’s “Give Me Love” too many times writing this.
> 
> HAPPY CHRISTMAS to thevampirelestrade/flyeswatter—yes, it was me, your Sherlock Secret Santa. Enjoy! Sorry about the angst. It came upon me without warning.

  

The cold seeped into 221B through the old windows, and Sherlock shivered, adjusting his microscope.

 "Sherlock!" John called from the hall.

 "YES?" Sherlock took another slide from the pile.

 "I need to grab a couple of things for the party tomorrow, so I'm heading out.  Any requests?" John appeared in the kitchen, his warm red jumper turning a bit orange in the florescent light.

 Sherlock waved a hand at him dismissively.  "Go on, I'm fine."

 “Eat the rest of that Thai while I'm gone."

 Another hand wave, a concealed eyeroll.

 John closed the door behind him, tromping down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.

 Sherlock waited at the microscope for eight minutes and 26 seconds, until he was sure that John hadn't forgotten his wallet (would have taken 5 minutes, 9 seconds for him to notice) and was well on his way away.

 "Finally," Sherlock breathed, getting up from the table and putting the slides away.  They were blank, and that had been the most boring and tedious hour of his life—pointedly ignoring John and thereby encouraging him to leave the flat.  He locked the door and went into his room, into the closet, and pulled out a large, plain cardboard box.

 It had been 9 months, to the day, that he'd been back at Baker Street.  It had taken him three times as long as he'd wished (18 months, one week, three days) to get back from the hunt, and John had been... gracious.  Had punched him, thrown up near his feet, and hugged him, and then taken him back into 221B from the rainy street (he'd never moved out, why not?) and made him tea.  Any and all of Sherlock's explanations and numerous apologies were heard and acknowledged, but all the same, Sherlock felt the distance there.  As rudimentary as his skills with emotional issues were, he could tell.  Lestrade had called it "walking on eggshells," and it was apt.  John didn't come on cases, sparse as they were as things were cleared up with the Yard.  He went to work and came back and made sure Sherlock ate.  John kept physical distance, as well, and had shrugged Sherlock’s hand off of his shoulder after news had come in that Lestrade was hurt but recovering—a move Sherlock never made again.  The broken bond hurt them both, but neither could think of moving out or away.

 So, knowing that John spent two Christmases without Sherlock, Sherlock wanted to make this one better than the others.  An apology, a promise.  And this plain box held a trove of holiday things which would be the physical manifestation of that betterment.

 It wasn't that Sherlock didn't like Christmas--he did, but the interactions with annoying shoppers and Lestrade and all the others, all at once, were maddening and largely useless, decorating for said others even more so.  It had been a nearly herculean effort to override these feelings and focus on what John would want.  Thankfully, the doctor hadn't noticed the boxes coming and going from 221B, nor had he seen Sherlock hide said boxes in his room (upstairs now, since

John had moved into the larger downstairs room in his absence).

Sherlock flipped open the box lid and pulled the three meter tree out, cord dangling and the tiny fiber optics along the plastic limbs making sshhh noises against each other.  There were five boxes of fairy lights, and a multitude of ornaments and new, unused glass vials (also ornaments). 

He'd ordered tinsel but wanted to leave that to John, later.

The tree went up behind John's chair, near the fireplace, and was plugged into the socket behind a few books.  The fiber optics lit up, and Sherlock gave himself exactly 40 minutes to put the ornaments on before hanging the lights.

Mrs. Hudson had, of course, been part of the process, having apprehended an ornament box and confronting Sherlock over pie.  She approved and told Sherlock that, even when he had been "gone" (she put quote marks around it, every time), John had put the lights up, both Christmases, without fail.  Something in her voice had quavered at the thought, cementing Sherlock's idea even more firmly.  She'd hugged him three times in the space of an hour and blown her nose several times.

Forty minutes passed, and Sherlock had used every ornament and all the glass vials, which reflected the little fiber optic lights in a pleasing way.

Once the first strand had been hung above the couch and the second around the far window, Sherlock put one around the cow skull and its horns, plugging it into another strand, edging it over and around the window, and then attaching that into the last one to go over the mantel and the books shelves.

Sherlock lacked a ladder, but he'd calculated that his chair could hold his body weight adequately enough to hang the rest of the lights.  He gathered the remaining strand up and stepped onto the back of his chair, running them along one shelf (tack every three inches) and, leaning down, started to lay them across the mantel piece.

Something shifted beneath him, the chair groaned, there was a intense popping sound as all the tacks let go, and, in what seemed like an instant, Sherlock was tangled in the strand of lights, hands stuck to his sides, upside down, sprawled across his chair, blood rushing to his face and a what had to have been a look of complete confusion on his face.

Sherlock shut his eyes and replayed the last two minutes.

One: chair couldn't hold weight properly.  Conclusion: John's constant insistence on eating changed weight, miscalculation.

Two: in falling, grabbed light strand, and, while off balance, turned self and rolled said strand around self

Three: self-preservation taking over, turned and fell onto chair with head down instead of onto floor or into the mantel piece.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, and he squirmed thrice, attempting to get out of the fairy lights.  No luck.  This strand, the longest one, had come undone from the one around the window and was wrapped tightly around his middle, squishing his hands to his sides and rendering any attempts to move futile.  If he kicked, he'd end up at a bad angle on the floor, head impacting the hard wood.  Trying to pull himself up over the back of the chair with his legs (which dangled knee down over said chair back) would hike the lights up further and make the tangle worse.

With his stuck hands at his sides, he couldn't reach his phone or even attempt to untangle the damned strand.  He could feel that his phone was slipping dangerously out of his front right trouser pocket.  It buzzed once.

His eyes clenched shut.  _If that's a case, I will never like Christmas again.  I will destroy every trace of this rubbish._ But, no additional texts told him that it was John--Lestrade always sent multiple "did you get my text" texts.  Many of them, ten on average per case alert before Sherlock deigned to answer.

"So, I'm stuck here."  Speaking aloud helped, not that Billy (wearing a Santa Hat as he was) could do much for him.  "Stuck, and who knows how long John will be gone, and Mrs. Hudson is at her sister's."

 Sherlock's sigh was resignation would have shaken Billy from his spot had Sherlock been in contact with the mantel.

 

........

 

Two hours, 5 minutes, and twenty eight seconds later, Sherlock heard the front door slam shut and John's familiar feet on the steps.  He'd managed not to pass out in the time John had been gone, but it was getting uncomfortable holding himself up by his abdominal muscles a little at time, and he had slid a little closer to the floor than was comfortable.  Sherlock shut his eyes and relaxed, head dipping down again, lights still holding him in place.

 John's bags dropped by the door, and Sherlock heard it close. "Sherlock!" John called, not having turned around. "I'm back--wha?"  It wasn’t a word, really; more of a very confused noise.

  _Now he's turned around._   There were steps and a shift of the air; John must be squatting by the tree, obscured by his chair.

 "Sherlock, is that...?  Are those Star Wars ornaments?  Did you put a Santa hat on Billy? And hang lights?"  His voice was so shocked that Sherlock could picture his face.  "Is that.. is that a TARDIS?"

"For Harry," Sherlock said, eyes still closed.  Somehow, Harry had gotten a job on the Doctor Who set and had turned her life completely around.  Apparently, one sometimes needed a Doctor.

"Are those.. are those magnifying glasses?"

"For me. And the vials."

 "Pie?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"Is that a tiny jumper?  And our door?"

"You'd be surprised how many Etsy stores have items dedicated to us."

"And an umbrella?"

"Mycroft, although he wouldn't like, which is why I did it."

"A little gun?"

"Lestrade."

 "And where on earth did you get a tiny lab coat on a hanger?"

"Molly.  Again, Etsy."

 John's voice had changed from surprise to awe fairly quickly.  Opening his eyes, Sherlock proved himself right.

 John stood up from his contemplation of the tree.  "Why does your voice sound hollow?"

 Sherlock struggled again against the lights, realizing that John’s chair was blocking his view of the detective’s predicament.  "It's echoing in the underside of my chair, as you'll see when you turn around."

 John just looked at him, meeting his eyes, and the concealed mirth there even made Sherlock crack a smile.  "How.. how did you manage to get tangled up like that?  I wasn't even out that long!"  He started to laugh as he walked over, which pushed Sherlock into giggles.

After a moment, John came over and knelt by his head.  "Don't move."  John put one steady hand behind Sherlock's head, the other on his shoulder, and pulled Sherlock off of the chair and onto the floor.  John then helped him get into a sitting position, leaning against seat of his chair instead of hanging off of it.

"I miscalculated my weight," Sherlock said, looking down at the lights wrapping his chest.  "You've been making me eat, and my chair didn't hold me up."  Sherlock jerked his head up at the light's plug near the window.  "I pulled the long strand down with me."

John raised an eyebrow and plucked at the lights, trying to find one of the ends to get Sherlock out of the tangle.  "I'm not sorry for making you eat," he said.  "You lost half of your weight out on the hunt."

That's what they had called it, the hunt.  Seemed appropriate and lacked emotional connotations, like “revenge” did.

Sherlock sighed, nodding, and wriggled under the strand.  "Look out for tacks, John.  Found the end yet?"

"Nearly."

Sherlock came to the sudden realization that they hadn't sat this close together, even in taxis, since before.  Or laughed like that.  John continued to pluck at the lights, concentrated, and Sherlock looked at his face and thought about that lost time, about John's voice on the phone that day, John's tears mingling with Sherlock's blood the day he'd come back.

All of it welled up behind Sherlock's tongue, and he heard himself say, "It was for you.  I wanted to surprise you."  And he immediately looked down at John's hands, couldn't meet his eyes, clenched his own shut.

John's hands stilled.  "What?"

Not moving, Sherlock added, "I know... I was gone two Christmases.  You love Christmas.  I... I was occupied, didn't even notice them pass, too focused on finding Moran and all of the associates.  But you... you were here, and you were... alone.  I hadn't thought you would be so affected."  Sherlock looked up then, met John's eyes.  "I owe you a thousand apologies.  And I thought, perhaps, that a proper Christmas would count as one."

John went still all over.  He blinked twice, deliberately.  "I saw the ornaments--you don't like Star Wars or Cluedo or anything like that.  And all the little pies.  Things for everyone.  But they're there, on the tree, with all those glass vials, an X-Wing and a magnifying glass and a tiny Cluedo board."  He licked his lips and dipped his head, keeping Sherlock's gaze locked with his as the detective tried to look down again.  "You didn't have to do that to apologize.  You have already.  You've explained it to me, all the whys and what you were doing, and the hows."

Sherlock shook his head.  "But it hasn't been enough.  You won't come on cases, you lock your door, you stop yourself from asking what I've been doing all day.  It's not right, yet.  I haven't done enough."  Sherlock spat the last sentence out with frustration.

"Sherlock."  John frowned, just a little.  "You saved my life.  You saved Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.  You broke up an entire criminal syndicate with minimal help and did so so quietly and quickly that Mycroft never even noticed.  You've done enough."

Sherlock shook his head again.  "No, _no_ , John.  Not enough for you.  Not enough to make it... better."

"Did you think things would just magically be alright again, once you got back?  That we'd go back to laughing in cabs and drinking tea at the palace, like nothing had happened?"

"No."  Sherlock's eyes flitted across John's face.  "But this… gap is worse than being gone was.  Like only half of you is here, talking to me."

John found the end of the light strand and tugged.  The lights tightened around Sherlock's chest, making him gasp in surprise, but John eased the end out from behind a loop and said, "Get up, let me get this off of you.  I can't talk to you while you're tied up like this."  Only then did he break eye contact.

Sherlock complied and watched as John circled him, unwinding the lights.  It took ten revolutions for them all to come off.  Sherlock heaved a breath and stretched, letting John place the strand on the arm of his chair.

"Sit."  John sat in his chair and turned it so it faced Sherlock's more directly.  He waited for Sherlock to settle before he spoke, and, when he did, it was quietly.  "Half of me is what's left, Sherlock.  I thought you were dead, and I mourned you, and it took everything I had to try and live after that.  A year of my life.  But you weren't dead, and you're here now.  I... had just really started getting better.  I only thought about you once a day, instead of all of the time--but you came back.  All that I..." He paused, swallowing.  "All that time I'd... wasted, mourning you.  You weren't dead, and it's hard to get back from that.  I'm adjusting.  I'm having to find that half slowly, again, and no stake out can help that.  I.." He swallowed, pausing.  "I know it's been a while since you moved back in, but I still think, sometimes, that you're not real.  Remember how many dishes I broke when you first got back?"

Sherlock watched the faint glow of the tree turn John's hair different colors and thought that he vastly preferred John's sandy blonde to green and blue.  He blinked, contemplating the doctor's words.  "I'm here," he said after a moment, looking down at the floor and finding all eight tacks at once.  "I'm not leaving.  I won't leave again unless you make me.  And I am sorry."

 "I know.  And I'm sorry I've been keeping myself distracted--but I know I'm doing it in case you leave again, in case one of Moriarty's men comes back again-"

 "They're all dead.  All of them.  I know they are, John, I’ve told you.  I killed them myself.  And I won't," Sherlock interrupted, voice lower and graver than he meant for it to be.  Without realizing it, he'd gripped John's wrist tightly.

 Too tightly.  John pulled his hand away.

 The gesture made Sherlock's face do something involuntary, a half-memory of John shrugging him off rising as well, muscles responding to something he couldn't see or control and which made something painful flash over John's features.  Somewhere between grief and surprise, the look, and Sherlock calmed himself.  This conversation took away from the original purpose of the surprise: making John happy.  That was the important thing.

 "Well, since you're back, do you want to help me hang the lights up here?  I won't miscalculate my weight this time."  Sherlock stepped back up onto his chair, lights in hand.

 "No, no, Sherlock, we're having this out now." John took the lights back from him and stuck them under his chair.

 Sherlock stepped gracefully from his chair and stood, hands on hips, in front of John.  "You like Christmas.  I wanted to surprise you.  I got tangled in the lights, upside down, and you came home.  I've told you everything, I've apologized, and I spent a great deal of my time between cases figuring out just what items the tree needed and talking to Mrs. Hudson about what would be appropriate.  What.."  Sherlock looked down at John's face.  "What do you need?  What should I do?"

 It was an honest question, and a direct one.  No point in mincing words with John.

 "You could sit down, for starters."

Sherlock did.

 "Now listen to me.  You can't fix this.  You figured out my leg so fast that it must be jarring to you to not have this fixed up and tied with a fucking bow already.  But you can't, Sherlock, you can't... force it better.  You're asking me what I need from you, yeah?"

A nod.

"I need you to continue to be my friend.  I need you to be around and let me know where you go.  I need to know that I'm making tea for two people, every day, not just by mistake."

 Another nod.  Sherlock had deduced, from the number of times John had forgotten to make him tea as well, how very many times that exact thing had probably occurred.

 "I need to work and continue to do the things I did in order to cope and figure out how to work that in to the Work, somehow.  It's not that I don't want to go with you, you know.  I just... can't yet.  It.."

 "Hurts too much." Sherlock finished for him and looked down.  "John, I don't have any right to tell you this, but it hurts me to not have you there.  It did when I was out.. hunting.  I didn't realize how bad it would be, for either of us, and for you."

Sherlock grimaced against the sentiment, but it was true.  John needed to hear it.

 Sherlock moved then, up from his chair and to his knees in front John.  Their eyes were level, opal and indigo.

 John didn't look away.  "The best gift I could have been given this year was you, Sherlock.  There's nothing else you can do but be patient.  Not that it's your strong suit. At all."

 Sherlock looked down again, breath caught.  His knees hurt a little, but, when he looked up, John's face had shifted from grief/concern to fond/caring/hopeful, and one side of his mouth was up.  It was so much like the old John that it cracked whatever veneer Sherlock had been building these nine months.

 He reached out and cupped John's cheek with his hand.  Before John could react or pull away or change the rapt expression on his face, Sherlock pressed his lips against the doctor's, gently, a feather of a kiss, dedicating to a separate part of his mind palace the exact texture, warmth, and pressure of John’s lips on his.  Sherlock remembered running a new paintbrush over his hands as a child, the sense-memory rising unbidden from the combination of sensations, and he moved back onto his knees and away.  He touched his mouth, once, and let the hand fall.

 He heard John make a surprised noise, but Sherlock focused on the floor beneath him and rocked back onto his feet, mentally mapping how to get to his room as fast as he could without having to look John in the eye.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Too much, too soon, not enough data._

 But a hand landed on his shoulder and kept him from rising.  Sherlock's head snapped up, and John was looking at him--but _really_ looking, all of him looking, eyes on Sherlock like he had just found the lost Library of Alexandria.  His face was glad/relieved/confused/glad, a combination Sherlock added to his list of John Expressions, ever growing and never deleted.

 John scooted forward in the chair, keeping his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and putting the other at the back of his neck, inching just a bit into Sherlock's curls.  "Sherlock," he breathed, emphasis on the second syllable, smiling, a rich, real smile, and kissed him.

 Sherlock's eyes fell closed.  John was much, much better at this than he was--moving his mouth just a little, flicking his tongue against Sherlock's lips like a question.  Sherlock answered without thinking, turning his face and parting his lips to give John better access--expecting to be plundered but instead was explored, carefully, their tongues brushing past each other.  Sherlock's arms came around John's waist and held.  It was good, too good—John kissed like he did everything: with determination.  He seemed to know just what to do, his fingers moving gently on back of Sherlock’s neck, nipping just a little on Sherlock’s full lower lip.

 No matter how boring breathing may have been, they had to come up for air at some point.  John's mouth was tinged pink as his cheeks, and he looked a bit dazed.  Sherlock knew that he looked the same way.

 They let go of each other but didn't move.  "Sherlock... what? Why?" John's questions held none of the anger or derision Sherlock was expecting.  Instead, they were laced with concern (broken friendship), enjoyment (good), and relief, again (anticipation, unrequited longing).

 "A kiss," Sherlock answered, taking a couple of breaths, looking down again.  His next words were a mumble, almost too quiet for John to hear: "I love you."

 John started in his seat, put both hands on Sherlock's face and tilted it up, meeting the detective's eyes.  "Obvious," Sherlock added, corner of his mouth quirking just a little.

 John's eyes went wide and (oh no no) edged toward tears.

 Sherlock cursed himself.  Miscalculations abounded tonight.  Whatever feelings Sherlock had, John didn't have or had had and had given up in the interim.  People didn’t tear up because of happiness—unheard of.  If John’s hands hadn’t been on his shoulders and Moriarty’s body would have been within running distance, Sherlock would have bolted to it as fast as he could to desecrate the criminal and his grave and burn him and scatter the ashes to the wind.  Sherlock had taken too long, and Moriarty’s web had been too wide, and now even John was lost to him.

  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

 John must have felt his tension or seen his face or heard the miniscule groan of sadness that rumbled in Sherlock’s chest—he must have, because John slid out of his chair and into Sherlock’s lap, putting his forehead against the detective’s, running both hands up Sherlock’s back and onto his shoulders, and softly said in stream, a few tears dropping onto Sherlock’s cheeks, “No no  Sherlock don’t you move one fucking step away from me what took you so long I wanted to tell you and I hated myself for not telling you god what I said to you before you went to that roof I love you I love you too…”

 Sherlock felt something click in his brain, the whirling gears ceasing their grinding and resuming a steady, oiled turning, and a nebula of memories passed in front of his face, John’s expression when they’d first met and he’d first deduced him, dinners at Angelo’s, post-case Thai, John’s voice telling him he could be that clever, John’s face when he’d opened the door on Sherlock nine months earlier—all of it, all of it, and he’d never realized that John felt the same way, had put it aside in his haste to grasp the game.

 Sherlock heaved in a breath and pushed his forehead against John’s, his nose bumping the doctor’s, his arms coming up and circling John, pulling him as close as he could without merging their skulls.  “I knew but I didn’t.  I didn’t.  I should have.  Obvious.”

 John was smiling, hugely, brightly, illuminated by fairy lights and the tree.  “Obvious.”  And he tilted his head and claimed Sherlock’s mouth, edging in and telling him with lips and tongue and teeth how very obvious it was and how mad he would be to move even an inch away from John without permission.

 When John pulled away, Sherlock felt like he had been running; his legs were numb and his mouth tingled.   “Happy Christmas, John.”

 “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”


End file.
